Fireflies in the Meadow
by Hoodfabulous
Summary: Edward's greatest fear was that one day her glow would diminish, eventually flickering away with the fireflies of summer, never to return. My Bandward contest entry. Adventures in angst and third person POV. Awards inside.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The author does not own any of the publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.

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><p>Thanks to Mrsspacecowboy and Megz0307, the judges in the Bandward contest who voted this fic as their favorite. This story also won second place in the Judges' votes. Special thanks to kitchmill for her awesome betaing skills, Ash and Shika for prereading and nitpicking, and to AliCat who read two chapters before pussing out and vamping on me, which is completely normal whenever I write anything angsty. This entry was an experimentation with writing third person POV, angst, some alt pairing. I make no promises.<p>

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><p>Fireflies in the Meadow<p>

Chapter One

The stage Edward Cullen stood on was rickety, made of scrap wood and rigged up by a few drunken friends. Behind him stood a wooden cabin belonging to Jasper Whitlock, his pseudo brother of sorts, the man who had been with his sister Alice for as long as his memory served. This was the last party of the summer and folks flocked to Jasper's cabin in the woods, eager to hear a few tunes and drink plenty of beer before entering their final year of high school.

On the banks of the lake in front of him, kids kicked up water, laughing and chasing one another. Boys flung girls into the murky depths, snickering as they emerged, dripping and drenched, the expression on their faces like that of a wet cat. Edward sat on an old stool and tuned his guitar, well-aware of Jessica Stanley and her group of friends staring and giggling nearby. But as scantily clad as they were in their short jeans and tight shirts, not one of them held a candle to the flame that was Isabella Swan.

Edward and his band warmed up. He tested the mic, smiling as his voice bounced off the lake waters. The crowd grew, kids running from the banks with eager smiles on their faces. Edward strummed the guitar, the chords captured with the fading sun. His drummer, Ben Cheney, followed suit softly tapping the drums, and Tyler Crowley soon chimed in on the bass.

Edward tended to play by his mood and tonight his mood was somber. He knew she'd be there. She never missed a party, and this one would be no exception.

The song was halfway over when he saw her. Like a firefly, she danced in the night, her bright light shining for all to see. Edward's greatest fear was that one day her glow would diminish, eventually flickering away with the fireflies of summer, never to return. But tonight she was free, swinging her hips in time with the music. She was so beautiful his voice broke a time or two. When he finished the song he did so with a woeful tone and the crowd erupted in hoots and cheers. The girl who held his gaze smiled and turned away, glancing over her shoulder and meeting his eyes.

Edward wanted nothing more than to follow.

But people had expectations and he was getting paid to perform. Not much money was involved, but it was enough to add to his savings account. Edward's dream was to move to Nashville to pursue his dream of singing. Chasing Isabella Swan into the dark was tempting, but with all temptations came the inevitable heartache.

Isabella Swan was the epitome of heartache.

Tyler Crowley thumped him on his shoulder, drawing him from his thoughts. "You okay, man?"

"Yeah, sorry." Edward briefly closed his eyes and shook his head, willing away thoughts of the devil-girl. "Don't know what the hell got into me."

"Finish the set list," Tyler mumbled with a knowing grin, "then you can find your girl."

Edward scowled but said nothing more. He began another song, his boot tapping the wooden platform in rhythm to the words. The song was more upbeat, a forced emotion he didn't feel. If anyone from the crowd noticed, it didn't show. They cheered and whistled, hands in the air and grins on their faces. Beer flowed freely and good times were had by all those around, but Edward's smile was forced. His thoughts were on the girl he could no longer see.

After he and his boys finished playing, Edward went in search of a cold beer. Palms sweating, he recognized his brother's jacked-up truck precariously parked on the muddy side of the gravel road leading to the cabin in the woods. Emmett's red cooler sat in the back of the truck, brimming with ice and beer. Edward pulled a beer out, relishing in the icy sensation of the can against his skin. He cracked it open and gave it a pull, swallowing half the beer in three long swallows.

She appeared when he wasn't looking for her. Shoes dangling in one hand, she ran barefoot in the nearby field. Mud coated her feet and splashed on her legs, but unlike the girls in the lake, Isabella Swan loved the sensation of mud between her toes. Ahead of her fireflies danced, flickering in and out of sight. Edward ducked behind the truck, standing in the shadow of a large oak tree.

Isabella wasn't alone. Paul Lahote, one of Edward's closest friends, chased her through the field. Isabella's soft voice was muffled, her words indistinguishable, but her laughter rang out, flirty and full of fun. When she wasn't hurting herself or anyone else, she was full of fun.

Edward finished his beer and drank another, silently seething as he watched his friend gather her up in his arms and swing her around from behind. Isabella squealed in delight, giggling furiously as Paul set her on her feet, his hands blazing a trail to her breasts. Giggles turned into delicious moans, a sound Edward knew so well from the nights they'd spent together chasing fireflies and ending in bed. Innocent nights turned into teenage sin.

"Fireflies use all their energy to glow," Isabella once told Edward after they first met. "They produce something called a cold light."

_A cold light_, Edward thought to himself with a grim shake of his head. _That's what she is to me: a cold light._

Isabella whispered something in Paul's ear and took his hand, leading him to a nearby truck. She leaned against the door of the truck, gesturing with one finger to Edward's friend. He drew closer, capturing her lips with his own. Anger, cold anger, raced through Edward's veins at the sight before him. His first love, his only love, was making out with his closest friend against Edward's own truck.

Like a masochist, Edward continued to watch, rooted to the spot by hatred, betrayal and astonishment. The sound of a zipper lowering rang out in the air. Edward watched as Isabella shimmed her shorts over her hips until they landed at her ankles. Without a hint of discretion or a glance over his shoulder, Paul dropped to his knees, his tongue lapping at the small space between Isabella's legs.

Isabella closed her eyes, tilting her head back against Edward's truck and rolling her hips. Each lick of Paul's tongue earned a lift of her pelvis. With her fingers woven in his dark hair she forced him closer, opening her eyes and staring straight ahead into the darkness.

Edward's heart sped as her gaze met his. A slow smirk wound its way onto her face. Between her pleasure-filled moans, she raised an eyebrow, silently daring him to do something, anything.

And he did.

Edward crushed the empty can in his hand and tossed it aside. Closing the distance between them, he felt something akin to horror flood his chest at the sight of her smile. He'd hoped the smirk was one of pleasure for herself, one not meant for him to see. He'd hoped she didn't really know he was standing there in the darkness watching as she ripped what was left of his faith in her apart. But she had. She had seen him and she wanted him to find her, wanted to provoke him.

Isabella's hands flitted away from Paul's hair. Paul let out a startled gasp followed by a painful moan as Edward slammed his fist against the side of his head. The dark-haired boy crumbled to the ground, screaming and covering his head in defense. The mask slipped off Isabella's face, quickly followed by a panicked expression. Fumbling to pull her shorts over her hips, she screamed at Edward to stop the relentless beating he was giving his friend.

Blood oozed from Paul's nose. His face began to swell. Still, Edward hit him again and again until a pair of hands attempted to pull him away, followed by another.

"Edward," Emmett shouted, his brow wrinkled. "What the hell are you doing?"

Mutual friends gathered around, some gazing at Paul in sympathy and others in horror. Edward received the same mixed expressions along with those of awed admiration. He shrugged his brother's hands away and turned to Isabella. She stood with her hands in her hair, panic on her face.

"I told you to stay away from my friends," he muttered, a warning tone in his voice. "That's the one thing I asked of you, to stay away from my friends."

Isabella's dark eyes narrowed. "When you break up with someone, you don't get to give final ultimatums."

"You promised. You swore you wouldn't do something like this."

Bella smiled, holding her head up high, ethereal and glowing, beautiful and evil below the moonlight.

"I lied."

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><p>Thoughts?<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Fireflies in the Meadow

Chapter Two

Edward awoke the following day groggy and disoriented. After a blurry-eyed glance around the room, he groaned and sank back on the mattress, unsure of how he got home to his own bed. Memories of the night before hit him much like the way he hit Paul Lahote, recklessly and with wild abandon. Minutes after his altercation with his former friend, someone had shoved Paul into a truck and drove off. To a hospital, to the police station, or to take Paul home; Edward wasn't certain.

Edward had seen Isabella leave the party with Rose, his brother's sometimes girlfriend, much to Edward's disgust. Rosalie Hale was one of his least favorite people on the earth. He partly blamed her for the events that unfolded the night he ended his relationship with Isabella. Edward felt his ex's friendship with Rose would end in disaster, with Rose standing triumphantly in the wake. Part of him pitied Isabella for befriending someone so heinous.

Part of him triumphed in it. She was a beautiful sort of evil. Masterful in her self-destruction.

Floorboards shifted under the weight of someone standing in the hallway. Edward placed his hands under his head, his gaze trained on his bedroom door. Slowly it creaked open, revealing the very person he held in contempt. Rose leaned on the doorframe, wearing nothing but an old threadbare T-shirt belonging to Emmett, and little else. As much as Edward despised Rose, he had to admit she was one of the most attractive girls he'd ever seen.

Rosalie sauntered across the room and crawled across Edward's bed, giving him a good view down the front of the baggy shirt she wore. Even at the crack of dawn she looked good and she knew it, smirking as she climbed on top and straddled him. Full lips twisted into a smirk and fuller hips encased his rigid body. Her tits were round and heavy, the size of cantaloupes. Edward groaned at the heat emitting from between her legs, warming him in ways he hadn't been warmed since his days with Isabella.

"What the fuck are you doing, Rose?" he asked.

"You, if you'll let me." Rose puckered her lips and ran her long nails along Edward's bare chest, raking them from his nipples all the way down to the waistband of his boxers. She shifted, rocking slightly against his cock, a satisfied smile on her face.

"Not gonna happen. Get off my cock before my brother walks in."

Rose leaned forward grasping his protesting hands mid-air. She pushed them into the pillows surrounding him, her lips brushing his ear. "I'm gonna get off on your cock before your brother walks in, not that he would care. It's not like we're exclusive. Besides, I've been begging him to let me fuck you for months now and he's all for it. He'll do anything to make me happy."

"You're crazy," Edward muttered. "Completely twisted."

Rosalie laughed and drew away, her lips only a breath from his. She reached between them, her hand easing inside the fly of his boxers. Her fingers wrapped around his cock and she gave him a long pump, gloating as he groaned and gritted his teeth.

"Call me what you want to, sexy. Your body tells me all I need to know," she whispered, her hand traveling lower, rolling his balls between her fingers. "You want me just as badly as I want you. And I always get what I want. Always."

Rosalie leaned back and pulled his cock out, her eyebrows raised at the sight of her hand pumping his cock. Thoughts of pushing her aside and calling out to his brother flashed through Edward's beer-muddled mind, but in the end the ghost of Isabella's words from last night flooded his brain, driving out any sense of propriety, self-respect or honor.

_I lied._

_I lied._

_I lied._

_I lied._

Edward suddenly sat up catching Rose off-guard. He grasped the back of her head, angrily guiding her mouth to his. Teeth clashing, lips biting, their first kiss was a fight for dominance, a duel of pain and pleasure. Rosalie moaned into his mouth as he shoved her shirt over her tits and cupped her breasts. Smiling against her mouth, he thought of Isabella. He thought of how she had ruined him, turning him into this person, this person kissing a girl he couldn't stand. He plucked her nipples the way he plucked his guitar, with love and hurt and a desperate need to fill the emptiness burning inside.

Rose leaned back on her hands, tossing her hair back and jutting her chest forward, earning an inner eye-roll from Edward. The move was practiced, almost porn like, but his dick didn't care and neither did he. He palmed her full breasts and pushed them together, lavishing one pert nipple with his tongue before moving to the other.

Rose began to moan out her request, muttering, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," and he almost did until he heard her whisper, "You're so much bigger than your brother."

Sickness curled in the depths of his belly, but he shoved the feeling aside along with Rosalie. He flipped her over on the bed and dragged her panties down her hips. He parted her legs, ignoring the warning bells of alarm ringing inside his head. Edward's warm breath washed over her mound and she wove her fingers in his auburn hair, anxious to live out one of her long-awaited fantasies. But seconds crept by, seconds which felt like minutes to Rose, whose eyes were tightly shut. Once they fluttered open in confusion, she met the piercing gaze of Edward, his lips only inches from where she throbbed with need. His hands grasped the back of her thighs, his thumbs digging painfully into the insides of her legs the longer she stared at him until she shifted in restless discomfort.

"Why are you waiting?" she asked, her whining voice reminding Edward of his hatred for the slut. "Does your tongue need a road map? A set of directions?"

Edward snickered and released her hips, pushing himself off the bed. He tucked his softening dick back inside his boxers, the sight of which made Rose's mouth drop open in astonishment. Never had a boy gone soft on her before. Never had a man walked away refusing to deliver what they both knew he wanted.

No one except Edward Cullen.

Later that night, Edward sat on the back deck. Guitar in hand, he strummed a few chords and gazed across the meadow separating his house from Isabella's. A pond sat nestled between the hills, the glassy surface mirroring a crescent moon.

The pond was where Edward first met Isabella Swan ten years prior at the tender age of seven. She'd moved from Phoenix, Arizona to Forks, Louisiana to live with her father. Late at night she'd sneak outside chasing the fireflies in the meadow. The luminous glow of her flashlight would bob along the hills. Her girlish laughter entranced Edward who also spent his evenings outside. Her giggles were like music and there was nothing Edward loved more than music. Music was an escape for him; it was a way for him to chase his own fireflies.

Over the years their relationship had blossomed into romance, something Isabella's father strictly forbade. Charlie Swan was a pillar of the community and Edward Cullen was the son of a crook, a man who stole more than he earned during his life. Charlie disallowed the children from playing together, but Isabella never gave up on Edward. Late night romps in the meadows dried up like the pond during a hot summer's drought.

She sought him now.

A flicker of light flashed in the distance, past the slopes and hills of the meadow. Edward paused his strumming, his fingers frozen on the strings. The light flickered again—one long flash followed by a succession of three quick flashes.

_Fireflies communicate with light_, Isabella once said, beaming with the grin of an eight-year-old missing her front teeth. _We're like fireflies, Edward. Whenever you need me, just flick the light._

Edward's heart sped in his chest, and he cursed himself for the quiver of excitement he felt in his bones. He sat the guitar down and stepped inside the house reaching for the light switch. He clicked the lights three times, stepped back outside and sat on the steps. The light in the distance stopped blinking. Instead, it bobbed gently for what seemed like an eternity.

Her legs came into view, bare and speckled with mud. She wore the same clothes from the night before, now full of wrinkles. With her hair a wild mess of tangles and her smile just as chaotic, she climbed two steps below him and hovered over him. Head high, she gazed at him with possessive adoration down the gentle slope of her nose.

Black irises smothered the honey-brown of her eyes and Edward knew. "You're fucking high."

"No," she whispered, suddenly straddling him. "Do you see how perfectly we fit together? Do you see?"

Isabella grabbed his hands, weaving her fingers through his. He tried to pull away, but she grasped his wrists and shoved him with enough force that they fell back on the deck. She laughed while he tried to resist her. She hovered over him ignoring his protests, her thumbnails digging into the tender skin of his arms.

"I'm so strong now," she whispered, "but I feel so weak. Why do I feel so weak? Why?"

The smile fell away from her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks, splattering on Edward's shirt—black mascara, black tears—landing on the place where his heart rested below.

"I don't want to hurt you, Isabella," he said, "but you need to get the fuck up off me before I do."

"You always hurt me." Isabella leaned down, strands of hair tickling his face.

Edward gave a humorless chuckle. "I always hurt you? You were the one with my friend's face buried between your legs last night."

"You make me hurt you, baby. Don't you see?" Isabella brushed her lips against his and he turned his head, pursing his own lips together. "You broke up with me. You hurt me, so I had to hurt you."

"We broke up because of this," he replied. "The drugs, your fucking mood swings. Screwing around with my friend one night, straddling me the next. And because of that fucking asshole you messed around with when we were together. The girl I fell in love with … she's not you. I don't know where she went, but she's not you."

"I'm still here. I'm still that girl."

Edward sighed. "No, you're not. You're in fucking la-la land in some drug-induced haze. We can't do this anymore, Isabella. This isn't the life I want."

Isabella released her grip. The pain eased in his wrists and he sighed, curling and uncurling his fists. He'd seen the worst of her and this wasn't it, but her behavior bordered on erratic and un-fucking-predictable ninety percent of the time. Edward remembered the time she'd kissed him, drew herself away and punched him in the face, all within a matter of seconds. Whatever shit she was riding high on helped her pack a punch, giving her more strength than ten of the toughest linebackers he'd ever played against.

Isabella plopped down beside him, her eyes fixed in the distance. "You remember when we first met?"

"Yeah." Edward sat up, staring at the tiny, flickering lights. "You were chasing fireflies."

"I still am." Isabella stood and picked up his guitar, admiring it in the moonlight. And with a blinding swiftness, she held it by the neck and brought it down on the deck railing, smashing the only gift Edward's father had ever given him.

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><p>Thoughts?<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Fireflies in the Meadow

Chapter Three

One time, when Edward entered the fourth grade, a kid named Riley Biers moved to town. A transplant from Washington, Riley wanting nothing more than to fit in with his new classmates. Awed by Edward's easygoing attitude and endless amount of friends, Riley easily latched onto him, mimicking his every move. Before long, Riley had signed up for football, Edward's favorite sport, and joined the Boy Scouts, an organization Edward's grandmother talked him into joining. Riley followed him around during recess. He dressed like him, hung out with the same group of friends, laughed at the same jokes, mussed his hair in the same messy mop.

Frustrated by his constant clinger, Edward complained to Isabella as they sat on the grass in his backyard late one night. Isabella laughed and nudged him with her shoulder, smiling and batting her eyes as demurely as a ten-year-old could.

"Fireflies imitate each other, ya know," she said, shining her flashlight in his eyes.

Edward blinked, momentarily blinded. Residual spots flashed in his vision long after she'd clicked the flashlight off. "Why do they do that? Imitate each other."

Isabella stretched her long legs out in front of her, wiggling her toes in the thick grass. "The girl firefly will imitate a female of a different species to lure male prey. Wanna know what happens next?"

Edward nodded and her eyes gleamed wickedly. She licked her lips and leaned over, whispering in his ear, "After she lures him in … she eats him."

Edward looked at her dumbly waiting for her to continue, but she said nothing. Instead, she smiled contently and gazed at the meadow. Dots of light speckled the darkness, flashing in brilliance. For the first time, Edward felt something akin to fear and longing for his best friend.

"Fireflies are like people," Isabella said, her smile drifting away. "Even fireflies pretend to be something they're not."

_~fireflies~_

Edward sat in his truck remembering that summer night. Seemed like a million seasons had passed since then instead of only eight summers. The sight of Isabella climbing out of Rose's old Mazda 625 triggered the memory. Sometime between the night Isabella destroyed Edward's guitar, the one true extension of himself, and now, Isabella had dyed her hair the same pale blonde color as Rose's. From across the lot, the two girls could be mistaken for twins. Both wore skinny jeans and ruffled tops. Sunlight glistened off their dainty bracelets, necklaces and earrings. They crossed the lot with an identical sway of their hips, matching one another in swagger. Under their thick makeup and tired eyes shadows dusted their skin, oblivious to the casual observer. Rosalie noticed Edward's stare and she smiled, fishing her phone out of her purse. Seconds later, Edward's phone buzzed in his hand.

_like wut u c? - Rose_

Rosalie desired nothing more than for him to respond to every text, to every lingering touch, to every displaced kiss. But Edward couldn't be bothered with Rosalie or her mind games. After Isabella smashed his guitar she'd sauntered back home, unresponsive to Edward's tongue lashing, ignoring him when he grasped her arm and spun her around. She'd been expressionless. No daunting smile, no evil smirk. Her face was void. Numb.

Edward had spent the night staring up at his ceiling, mulling over the events of the past few years. Isabella had changed, her life now marked with cranked up highs and rock bottom lows. No median, no in between.

Drugs played a huge role in her behavior. Isabella began smoking weed when she was fifteen. Because of his father's extensive history of drug-related arrests and dealings with the substance, Edward was firmly against drugs. Still, he remained her friend over the next couple of years. Once their relationship blossomed, he reiterated his beliefs. Isabella had sworn she'd never touch the stuff again and she didn't.

Until she befriended Rosalie Hale.

Foolishly believing he could end their friendship, Edward told Isabella about Rosalie's constant come-ons. Isabella went into a rage, accusing Edward of being jealous of the time she spent with Rosalie, time she could have been spending with him. Things were rocky after that. Edward had his suspicions that Isabella was dabbling in other drugs, but had no concrete evidence. Their relationship ended the night Isabella called him at one in the morning, sobbing and slurring apologizes through her drunken tears. That was the night Isabella cheated on him, the ultimate deal breaker.

"You did what?" he'd said into his cell, glancing at the clock on his nightstand.

"It didn't mean anything. I was drunk, and Rosalie said—"

"It didn't mean anything?" Edward turned on his lamp and sat up in bed. "Apparently neither did our relationship, because you've gone and fucked it up."

Isabella's tone became accusatory. "Rosalie said she saw you last Friday night. She saw you and Jessica Stanley in your truck."

"Rosalie is a damn liar. I've been telling you that forever. She'd like nothing better than to see the two of us split up."

"She's my best friend," Isabella whispered, sniffing. "She'd never want to hurt me. She wants the best for me."

"Is that why she's got you on the needle, Isabella?" Edward waited for her response, but heard nothing but shouting and random voices in the background, the low thump of bass and the occasional sniffle. His guess was a wild one, an assumption he'd made without any real proof, but the silence as Isabella disconnected told him all he needed to know.

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><p>Thoughts?<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Fireflies in the Meadow

Chapter Four

School dragged by the way it always had. Afterwards, Edward drove around town, angry with himself for still caring about the little girl he once loved. She had destroyed his guitar, destroyed his heart, yet here he was pulling into her driveway behind her father's black SUV. The word "sheriff" screamed at him in bold, yellow lettering on the SUV. His stomach clenched at the sight of the vehicle, at the vast memories of visiting his father behind bars. Charlie Swan stepped outside, caught off guard by the teenage boy standing near his SUV.

"She's not home," Charlie grumbled, his surprise to see the boy quickly replaced with disgruntled irritation. "And even if she was, you're not allowed to see her."

Edward shoved his hands in his pockets and gave the man a sad smile. "Hello to you, too, Mr. Swan."

Charlie grunted, his thick mustache twitching. He adjusted the gun belt on his waist and brushed invisible lint from his police uniform. Edward moved to the side, allowing Charlie plenty of room to open his SUV door.

"Still upset about the Victor Laurent thing?" Edward asked.

Charlie's hand stilled on the door handle. He turned, facing the teenager and peering into his face. "You're serious? The Laurent thing? What 'thing' are you referring to? The fact that you physically assaulted one of your peers and left him bleeding on the side of the road? That 'thing'?"

Edward shrugged. "He accused my father of a crime he didn't commit."

"Speaking of which, how is your father?"

"Haven't heard from him." Edward frowned, shifting on his feet.

"He can't run from the law forever." Charlie slid on his Ray-Bans. "Sure you haven't heard from him?"

"I'm not here to talk about Carlisle. I'm here to talk about Isabella."

Edward bit the corner of his lip, wondering if he should proceed. Narcing on anyone was low. Lower than dog shit, but Edward had no choice. She needed help and her father was the only person who could save her.

"Like I said, she ain't here and even if she were …"

"Look," Edward said, "I don't know how to say this other than to just spit it out. Something is wrong with her. I think she's on something, something stronger than weed."

Charlie stared at him for a while before bursting into loud belly-bellows of laughter. "You're kidding, right? Isabella, on drugs?"

"I know it's probably hard for you to believe."

"Hard for me to believe?" Charlie scoffed, glaring at him through the shades. "I'm a cop, kid. The fucking Chief of Police. You think I wouldn't know that my daughter was on something?"

You didn't know we'd been sneaking around until recently, Edward thought to himself. Daddy's little angel dating Carlisle Cullen's son …

Charlie opened the door of his SUV and climbed inside, slamming the door and sticking his head through the open window. "Is this some sort of desperate attempt to get her attention? Because if it is, I've got news for ya, kid. My daughter doesn't date guys like you. She doesn't date guys period. Isabella's going to college next fall. She's got a future. She's not gonna get stuck in this town married to some loser like …"

"Like who?" Edward asked after a lengthy pause.

The officer cleared his throat and shook his head. "Like no one. Just saying, she ain't getting stuck in this town. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for work."

"So you're not going to help her?"

"There's nothing to help. Now, if there's nothing else …"

Charlie cranked the vehicle and it rumbled to life. Edward's shoulders sagged, thoughts of Isabella's erratic behavior gnawing at him like a dog with a bone. An idea crept into Edward's mind and he nearly banished it as soon as it appeared. But he was desperate.

"Actually, there is something else." Edward squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. "I'd like to report a crime."

"A crime?" Charlie's ears perked up, hoping for some information on Carlisle Cullen. "What kind of crime?"

"Vandalism," he said. "Malicious destruction of property. More specifically, my guitar. It was a one of a kind. Last I looked, it was worth around three-thousand dollars."

"Three thousand dollars." Charlie whistled. "Anything over two hundred and fifty is a felony. Who destroyed your guitar, son?"

A vision of Isabella grinning, smashing his guitar until only splintered pieces of wood and curled strings remained, flitted through his head. Edward blinked, feeling almost as numb and empty as the expression on Isabella's face that night once she'd destroyed his guitar.

"Your daughter, Sir."

_~fireflies~_

On the outskirts of the small town of Forks rested an unappreciated gem of a store called Rebel Music. Founded by Roger Webber, a semi-famous guitarist in the late eighties, now retired, Rebel Music was one of the few music stores within an hour's drive of New Orleans.

Edward first stepped into Rebel Music as a young boy and he stepped inside now as a young man. Not much had changed inside the store since Edward last visited. Fenders and Takamines and Marshalls still hung from the walls. Drum sets were still on display near the back of the store. A kid of about ten sat behind the drum set, his eyes round in awe, drumsticks trembling in his hands. Some punk-looking kid with full sleeves of tattoos on his arms strummed away on a Les Paul, a powerful whine of chords whimpering from a Boss speaker. Eyes closed and lips curled in a smile, he was the picture of pure, unadulterated bliss. Jealousy pierced Edward's heart. He remembered the release of life's woes with the strum of a guitar. Seemed like those days were a dream, a memory which never took place.

"Can I help you?" a sweet voice asked.

Edward tore his jealous gaze from the boy and gazed at a tall girl with a long ponytail around his age. Her skin was clear and tan, her eyes curious and brown. Curious, not malicious. Not mischievous or deceitful or covetous. Simply curious.

"Uh, yeah," Edward said, clearing his throat. "I'm looking for an acoustic guitar."

"Okaaay," she replied, gesturing around the room. "We have plenty of those. Les Paul? Gibson? Anything specific?"

"Anything specific," Edward mumbled.

His mind wandered back to his guitar, the one she smashed. That guitar was his life, his passion. Touching the wood, strumming the strings, was like going home for him, but not the home where he lived, not the home where his mother rarely visited and his father was never around. Playing that guitar was his ideal home. It was Christmas spent with family, candlelit cakes on every birthday, and not worrying about the electric getting cut off because his parents were too broke to pay the bill. His guitar was the home, the reason he blew those imaginary birthday candles out.

"Yeah, I have some specifications," he said. "My guitar needs to be aesthetic. The wood under my fingertips should feel like sex. She must be nirvana to play. A six-string soul mate. She needs to play bluegrass on Friday nights and be ready rock out by Saturday. The mid-range needs to be smooth and even, not boxy."

"Indian rosewood," she whispered. "Mother of pearl inlay."

Edward smiled. "She doesn't have to be that pretty. Looks aren't important."

"I disagree. I think looks are_ very_ important."

"Girls don't normally think that way," he said, laughing.

She quirked an eyebrow. "Maybe not the girls you hang around."

Edward's curiosity was piqued by the haughtiness of her voice. "I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," she said. "Follow me and I'll show you the acoustics we have."

Dumbfounded, Edward followed her, noticing the slight swell in her hips, the way her long hair swung back and forth with each step. Compared to Isabella, the girl was completely different. There was no flirtation in her voice, no danger in her smile. Guitars hung from the walls above and she stared up at them, joy on her face. Her grin was infectious and Edward found himself smiling along with her.

"I'm in love with this Gibson," she said, blushing.

Edward reached above her and released the guitar from the prongs holding it on the wall. The flat-top was black and brown, Indian rosewood, he decided, with the mother of pearl inlays she whispered about with such reverence.

"This is a Cadillac," Edward said, strumming with his thumb. "So much bling."

"Did you notice the bridge is curled up like a mustache? And the frets have smooth, beveled ends?"

"Yeah," he responded. "It's beautiful. But like I said, looks were only skin deep."

"No, you said looks weren't important. Get it together, Cullen."

Edward's thumb stilled over the stings. "You know my name?"

The girl's face flushed. "Everyone knows your name. Besides, we've only been going to school together most of our lives."

The longer Edward stared at her the more familiar she looked. "You're a sophomore, right?"

"Junior. You want me to plug this up so you can hear her wail?"

"Later," he said, smirking at the frustration on her face. "Are you purposely not telling me your name?"

"Why does it matter?"

"It's common courtesy, especially in customer service, to introduce yourself by name." Edward fought to keep a straight face.

"Angie," she sighed. "I'm Angie Webber."

"Roger's daughter? Your dad owns this shop?"

"The one and only." Angie reached to tuck her hair behind her ear, forgetting that her hair was already pulled back in a ponytail. Her hand dropped listlessly at her side and she shifted on her feet.

Edward looked down at the guitar, pretending not to notice her fumble, but then he glanced up again, intrigued by the pretty girl. "I think I'm ready to hook up."

Angie's eyes went wild, her face turning red, and Edward laughed.

"I'm talking about the guitar," he said.

"Right," she mumbled, shaking her head. "Follow me."

Edward followed her across the room, trying and failing not to stare at her ass. She hooked up his guitar to the speaker and twisted a couple of knobs, then handed him a pick as though it was a second thought. Edward waved her away, rarely one to use a pick. A short stool sat nearby and Edward plopped down, placing his booted feet on the rungs and tuning the guitar. Seconds later he was lost in his nirvana, humming along with the song he wrote inside his head.

"That's pretty," Angie said, pulling up a stool beside him. "What were you playing?"

"An original." He shrugged and paused to bend and stretch his fingers, working the unusual soreness out.

"You like?" she asked, nodding at the guitar.

"I like," he said, noticing the dipping neckline of her shirt, the cleavage between her pert breasts. "Pretty from the inside out."

Angie inhaled a deep, surprised breath, her nervous laughter cracking over the chords. "Um, so were you interested?"

"Definitely interested. Haven't been this interested in a long time."

"Interested enough to take her home with you?"

"If she'd let me," he said. His gaze was intense. "You think she'd let me?"

Angie hesitated, unsure how to respond. "Are we still talking about the guitar?"

Edward stopped playing and stood, removing the guitar strap from his shoulder. "I thought we were talking about me and you. Am I wrong?"

"Me and you?" She snickered, flashing a genuine smile. "You're kidding, right?"

"I don't kid around about anything. Haven't in a long time," he replied, digging in his back pocket for his wallet. "I'm taking this Gibson home today. And I'm taking you out on Friday night."

"I don't think that's such a good idea," she said. "I mean, the taking me out part. Isabella … you and Isabella …"

"There is no _me and Isabella_. There's me and there's Isabella. We're two separate entities."

Angie walked to the register and rang him up, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "Even second-hand, this is an expensive guitar."

"Quality costs more." Edward tossed several hundred on the counter, courtesy of Charlie Swan. There would be no punishment for Isabella. Not as long as Charlie Swan was Sheriff. "You sure we've gone to school together that long? Why haven't I seen you around more?"

The cash register chimed. Angie slammed the drawer shut and handed him his change. "Probably because all you've ever seen is _her_."

* * *

><p>Hmmm?<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

Fireflies in the Meadow

Chapter Five

"You're holding the cue wrong." Edward smirked and stepped behind Angie, leaning into her. He placed his hands over hers and demonstrated how to strike the ball. Angie's breath stilled inside her chest, the pounding of her heart the only thing she could focus on. That and his touch, the roughness of his fingertips, worn from playing the guitar on lonely nights. He was right_ there_, pressing against her ass. Never had she felt so feminine, so desired as she did in that moment. Edward Cullen was touching her, stroking her fingers, his breath hot on her neck as he whispered instructions.

Angie gathered her wits and hid a smirk. She shot and hit the cue ball, striking another ball and sending it spiraling into a side pocket. Cheers erupted around them and Angie straightened up, but Edward didn't move, other than to place his hands on her hips.

"Looks like you've got a good instructor," he said, his nose nudging her ear.

"That or the fact that I'm an excellent player," she retorted. "Another thing my daddy taught me, aside from playing the banjo. And the guitar, harmonica, piano, drums ..."

Voice trailing off, she left him standing near the pool table, a triumphant grin on her face. Impressed, Edward watched her walk away, admiring the sway in her hips as she positioned herself on the opposite side of the table. Not once in the past week they'd been inseparable had she failed to surprise him.

Things were different with her, Edward conceded. There was no waiting for the metaphorical ball to drop on her emotions, although he couldn't help but expect it. Constantly. Angie was refreshing, he decided. Sure, people thought their relationship was odd at first. Kids in the hallway still stared as he leaned beside her locker. They whispered as he carried her books and walked her to class. But Edward was too fascinated by this girl to care.

"I heard Isabella is pissed about you and Angie," Ben Cheney said, nodding at Edward's date.

Edward shrugged. "Who cares? She sealed her fate when she stepped out on me."

Edward walked over to Angie, trying to force Isabella from his mind, but it was difficult. She hadn't returned to school since the first day she spotted Edward and Angie walking side by side down the corridor, laughing and talking. Isabella looked exhausted that day: shadows and bags under her eyes, bruises on the inner bend of her arms.

Angie leaned over the pool table, her hair so long that the tips brushed against the felt. Gathering her hair in his hands, he whispered in her ear. "You need to take care of the tip."

"What?" she asked, eyes widening. The cue stick hit the table with a thud. Edward laughed.

"The tip." Edward picked up the cue and tapped the tip. Blue chalk smeared the pad of his finger. "You're a pool expert, right? You should know that this is the tip." Edward slid his hand down the length of the stick, stroking the shiny wood. "And this is the shaft."

Angie licked her bottom lip, feigning an innocent expression. "How do I take care of the shaft?"

"I'd show you," Edward said, "but that's a more _private_ demonstration."

He raised an eyebrow and glanced around the room. Although the old jukebox blasted Hank, the crowded room full of teenagers were pretending not to notice the couple but straining to hear every word. There was no doubt in either Edward or Angie's mind that vague Tweets were going out, Facebook statuses were being posted, and Isabella was somewhere well aware of the flirtation going on between her ex and a girl barely anyone knew existed until a week ago.

Before Angie could formulate a clever response, there was a flurry of activity at the door. People were shouting, tires were squealing outside, excited stares were tossed across the room at the couple. Curious, Edward placed the cue on the table and crossed the room. Kids parted like the Red Sea, all of them gaping at him, awaiting his reaction. To what, he didn't know.

Stepping outside the building was like stepping back into the future. Gone was the jukebox playing hits of the past, the nicotine-coated walls of the pool hall, a place where his own parents spent their free nights as teenagers. Cars and trucks, some old, some new, riddled the parking lot. His truck, the one he worked so hard saving up for by playing gigs, sat near the edge of the lot, windows smashed, tires slashed, words carved into the paint. Edward ran across the lot, a knot of anger and disbelief choking his throat. He traced the deepest carved words on the vehicle with his finger, the letters scraped violently into the hood.

"Fireflies eat one another," Angie whispered. "What the hell? What does that mean?"

"What does it mean?" Edward glanced down the road. Lone taillights faded in the distance, but not before he recognized Rose's vehicle. Someone flicked a cigarette from the passenger window. Edward opened the door of his truck. Holes from a lit cigarette dotted the cracked leather driver's seat. "It's a threat."

"A threat? Against you?"

Edward shook his head, setting his sights on his new girl. _She's so pretty_, he thought to himself,_ so innocent and scared._

"No, not a threat against me." He touched her chin, tilted her face up and looked her square in the eyes. "A threat against _you_."

_~fireflies~_

The hot summer sun beat down on Edward's truck, a sheen gleaming on the surface of the fresh paint job. Emmett skimmed his fingers over the surface of the hood. Words once deeply carved into the truck were now gone, replaced with a thick coat of white paint. Sam Uley stood a few feet away from the boys, watching them appraise his paint job.

Sam wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. He removed an oil-stained rag from his back pocket, using it to clean his tar-colored hands. Thick grease transformed his nail beds a permanent black color. No amount of soap and water could remove the filth from his hands, let alone the dirty rag he used now. He shoved the rag back into his pocket and tugged at the front of his sleeveless shirt, his body begging for air on his heat-slick skin.

"Sam did a good job, huh, Edward?" Emmett said, giving the hood an appreciative pat.

"Hell, yeah," Edward said. "Looks better now than it did before."

He winced as he noticed the bald tires on the truck, regretting his words. Sam crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back on his heels.

"Best I could do on the tires," he said. "Considering you're on a budget and all."

Edward nodded and kicked the tires with the toe of his boot. "Better than the ones that were on there, I guess."

Sam laughed. "Yeah, better old than useless."

"The tires she slashed were brand new," Em grumbled. "Eddie bought 'em less than six months ago."

Edward stiffened, not wanting to go into the details of the night at the pool hall. But small towns hold small populations and the sparse amount of people living in them had little else to do other than gossip. Word got around fast. Assumptions got around even faster. Although there was no evidence pointing to Isabella being the culprit who damaged Edward's truck, everyone assumed it was Isabella.

Edward rounded the truck, memories of the night at the pool hall replaying in his mind as he continued to check out the paint job. "How much do I owe you, Sam?"

Sam held his head high and told him the total. Emmett winced. Edward took his wallet out of his back pocket, removing the remainder of Charlie Swan's hush money from inside. Sam took the money, slowly counting the bills.

"Thanks, man," Edward said.

"Hey, no problem," Sam replied, tucking the money inside his own wallet.

Edward and Emmett climbed in the truck, both pretending to ignore the way the ripped and burned seats tugged and hung on their jeans. Edward hadn't been able to afford replacing the upholstery. Not with what he had left after he bought that guitar. Part of him wished he'd never gone to Charlie Swan. If he hadn't he wouldn't have ever met Angie, and as much as he enjoyed spending time with her, he knew you couldn't miss what you never had.

Edward doubted that Charlie mentioned Edward's visit. Isabella's revenge on his truck was entirely based on the fact that he and Angie were considered an item, something he was sure Isabella couldn't comprehend. For as long as he could remember, he and Isabella had been joined at the hip, separated by no one, until Rosalie Hale befriended Isabella.

"You don't see me acting ghetto because of who she spends her time with," Edward mumbled.

"Huh?" Em said.

"Nothing."

Emmett shook his head and stared at the blur of Spanish moss hanging from the trees, his tan arm resting on the window. Swamps and lily pads transformed into pastures with sagging fences and splintering, wooden posts. Cows grazed the grass, a handful resting beneath the shade of a lone tree. Em took a deep breath, searching for the rain in the sky. Their father always said cows only lounged when there was rain in the sky. But he smelled nothing but the stagnant waters of the swamp now far behind them.

Stagnant, the way his life felt sometimes.

He glanced at Edward and cleared his throat. "You need to put as much space between you and that crazy bitch as you can."

Edward snorted. "You're one to talk about crazy bitches. Your girl won't get off my jock. Sad thing is, you condone it. Hell, sometimes I wonder if you don't encourage her behavior."

"Rose ain't my girl."

Edward raised an eyebrow and turned down the radio. "What do you mean?"

"Rose ain't my girl," Em repeated, his voice low, muffled. "Rose is my car wreck."

"Car wreck?"

"Yeah, you ever seen a car wreck? You know how it's horrible and disturbing and sometimes sick, but you can't look away? Rose is my car wreck. No matter how bad she gets, I can't seem to turn away."

As the words sunk in, Edward felt a connection with his brother, a connection he'd never felt before. He reached for the radio to turn it up, uncomfortable with the strange sense of vulnerability, but Em batted his hand away, continuing to speak.

"You don't wanna be like me, Eddie." Emmett's gaze was intense. "I'm fucking twenty years old and in the same grade as my kid brother. The only thing I'm good at is working and partying. And you, you've got talent. You play that guitar better than Rose plays with my head. You've got an academic scholarship. You're smart as hell. Don't waste all that on this girl, this crazy as hell girl."

* * *

><p>You ever been in a car wreck of a relationship?<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

Fireflies in the Meadow

Chapter Six

Edward and Emmett drove the rest of the way home in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Edward's mood perked up at the sight of their sister's old sports car sitting in the drive. They stepped inside the house and each greeted Alice in their own way. Edward ruffled her hair, calling her "short stuff" and Emmett swung her around in his arms, grinning as she feebly fought to escape his iron-clad grasp.

"What are you doing here?" Em asked, placing her back on her wobbly legs.

"Making sure my kid brothers have enough to eat," she said, snooping through the fridge and cabinets.

Emmett grabbed the fridge door before she could close it. He removed a pitcher of iced tea and poured himself a glass. "Of course we have plenty of food, thanks to the food pantry at Meemaw's church."

"And the EBT card," Edward said, frowning.

Alice gave them a sad smile. "Ah, my hard-earned tax money. Funny, I moved out years ago, but I'm still paying for my brothers to eat."

Edward's chest tightened with her words. Alice moved out at sixteen, marrying Jasper, a man older than her by eight years. While some teenage girls dreamed of marrying their high school sweethearts and moving out from under the oppression of their parents, this wasn't a dream Alice had shared. Her decision was a completely selfish one. The truth was, her family wore her down, even at the tender age of sixteen. She worked two part-time jobs after school back then, struggling to help support her family.

Esme, their mother, sure didn't help much. She worked long hours in a pillow factory, stuffing pillows, but drank all the money away before the bills got paid. Carlisle stayed in and out of jail for stealing more than he spent at home with his family. When Alice met Jasper Whitlock, the wealthy son of a local lawyer, she'd hit the jackpot, financially speaking. And Jasper thought she hung the moon, falling easily into her childlike babbling of marriage. Esme and Carlisle saw dollar signs and quickly agreed to sign the documents allowing their underage daughter to marry. Jasper never mentioned the planned nuptials to either of his parents. They'd gotten married and spent two weeks in the Smoky Mountains, hiding away in the wake of their life-altering decision that rocked the Whitlock world.

Although he'd been sucked into little Alice's world, Jasper wasn't a naive man. Esme and Carlisle learned within a matter of days that they wouldn't be benefiting financially from the marriage between their daughter and the heir to the Whitlock fortune. Jasper was laid-back, quiet and believed in making what he earned. His inheritance was secure, saved for the baby growing inside Alice's belly, a baby only Alice knew existed.

"Where have y'all been?" Alice asked, pouring herself a glass of tea as well.

"Ben dropped us off at Uley's Garage," Em replied. "We were picking up Edward's truck."

"I heard about my little brother's truck." Alice pretended to pinch Edward's cheek. He brushed her fingers away. "Why do y'all fall so hard for these girls? First Daddy, loving Mama even though she's cheated on him probably since their wedding night. Then Emmett, following that Hale girl around like a dog in heat. Now Eddie and that bat-shit crazy Isabella Swan."

"When Cullens love we love unconventionally," Em said, placing his hand over his heart and releasing a loud belch.

"I think you mean unconditionally," Alice responded.

"Nah, I meant what I said. Our love is unconventional. Just look at you and Jasper and that damn age difference. But it works, right? Y'all are in love. Unconventional love, but it's still love."

Alice pressed her lips together, forcing a smile. She said nothing as she turned on the kitchen faucet and began washing the sink full of dishes, her tears spilling into the dish water.

_~fireflies~_

Edward awoke that night from a nightmare, a nightmare involving Isabella. In the dream, she'd run her car off the road, crashing it into a tree. Edward knew his mind had fabricated the dream from the words his brother spoke earlier that day. The metaphorical car wreck became real, in his mind at least.

He picked up his cell from his nightstand, noticing a couple of missed texts from Angie, one wishing him a good night. He'd gone to bed early that night, the stress of the day exhausting him until he fell into a deep sleep. Now his clothes were soaked from the sweat-producing nightmare. Soft light filled the room as he flipped on his lamp and stood, pulling his shirt over his head and shrugging off his sleep pants.

A light tap caused him to pause. He glanced at the nearby window, his throat tightening with an old memory of her. As kids, she would show up at his window on nights they didn't flicker their flashlights or porch lights. Hesitantly, he crossed the room and pushed open the window, his heart slamming against his chest as he stared at the brown-eyed girl.

"I had a nightmare," she whispered, pleading with her stare. "I had a nightmare about him."

Edward nodded, pushing the window the rest of the way until it was completely open. Isabella climbed inside, swift and catlike, and set her flashlight on his desk. She glanced around the room as though she were looking for something. Photos of Angie maybe, or other mementos of some sort. But nothing had changed, not even the candid screenshot of Edward and Isabella glowing on his computer.

"You know how bad things are around here," Edward said. "You know Em's working after school to help pay bills. You know I save every penny I make playing gigs to keep the power on. You know ..."

"I didn't do it," she said, turning to face him, leaning against his computer desk. "I didn't do that to your truck."

"I saw Rose's car that night. You were with her."

"We passed by," she replied, "but neither of us saw anything."

Edward narrowed his eyes, not buying her act. "You've lied before. How can I trust you now?"

"I don't know," she said, shrugging. "Maybe you shouldn't."

Tired of her head games, Edward sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair, a headache developing near his temples. Isabella pulled his desk chair from beneath his desk and sat down, then turned to the computer.

"You still have all those pictures of us?" she asked, clicking the mouse.

Edward glanced up, but she must have jarred the desk when she sat down. The monitor was turned in a way that he couldn't read the screen. All he saw was a bright blur.

"You looking at old pics?" he asked, shaking his head. He lay down on the bed, placing his hands behind his head.

"I'm looking at you," she mumbled, twisting in the chair to smile at him. "And you look so good."

"Not gonna work," he replied, staring at the ceiling.

"You sure about that?" she asked, standing.

Isabella pulled her yellow shirt over her head, tossing it on the pillow beside Edward. Edward told himself to not look away from the ceiling, but she was standing there, unclasping the snap of her nude bra and slipping it over her shoulders. She shimmied out of her leggings next, no underwear in sight.

"Look at me," she said, crawling on the bed like a panther. "Edward, look at me."

Edward forced his gaze from the ceiling and held her gaze, but not for long. She removed the elastic from her ponytail, her brown hair spilling over her shoulders, an action begging for Edward's attention. He absentmindedly licked his lips at the sight of her pert tits, full and round, with light brown nipples taut, begging for his attention. She straddled him and ran her fingers through his hair, teasing him by brushing her erect tip along his bottom lip.

Edward's lips parted and he closed his eyes, licking and then sucking her nipple. Each pull of his mouth on her puckered skin drew out a cry of ecstasy from her mouth. Unable to contain himself any longer, he pushed her onto her back and she spread her legs wide. Her fingers traveled from one tit, down her abdomen and between her legs. With frantic, brisk movements, she rubbed the small, glistening nub between her legs, crying out as Edward slid his boxers down and entered her without warning.

Edward fucked her hard. He fucked her until she was sore, begging through her pain for more. He fucked her as a punishment to himself for loving her. Afterwards, when they were both spent, one curled into a ball blissfully sleeping, the other lay wide awake, repulsed. Edward was sickened for giving her what she always wanted on the nights she had nightmares of her mother's boyfriend.

* * *

><p>Yeah ...<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

Fireflies in the Meadow

Chapter Seven

_She's a fire, a flame, glowing in the night. A fire, a flame, she destroys with her light._

_Firefly._

Edward scratched out the words as soon as he wrote them. His pencil dug into the paper, breaking the lead from the tip. He stared down at the useless pencil in his hand, bending it between his fingers until it snapped in half. Mrs. Cope droned in the background, somewhere past the pounding in his head. Edward couldn't pay his teacher any attention. Not today. Not after waking up alone.

The bell rang and everyone stood, snickering at the plump teacher scowling at them from the front of the room. Kids skirted past her, the scowl on her face already a forgotten memory. Plans were busily being made: Friday night bonfires, drinking games, random parties. Edward gave the teacher a brief, sympathetic smile before joining his classmates in the corridor.

Isabella flew out of a classroom, her Rosalie-like hair whipping behind her. Brown roots were already beginning to show, something probably unnoticed by most, but not by him. He noticed everything about Isabella, from the bounce in her step, to the wide, honest smile she tossed Angie as she passed by.

"You okay?" Edward asked Angie as soon as Isabella was out of earshot.

Nervousness crept up inside of him, followed by guilt. He recognized that what happened the previous night with Isabella was a mistaken urge of a teenage boy, an itch that begged to be scratched. Now, standing in the hallway taking in the sweet girl in front of him, he wished he could take it all back.

Angie cleared her throat and shook her head. "I'm fine, but Isabella … Edward, I know this sounds strange, but she scares me. I keep thinking she's gonna do something to me. Especially since that night at the pool hall. You said she was threatening me with what she did to your truck, but if that's true why is she being so friendly? She's spoken to me like three times today. Isabella has never spoken to me before today."

Angie closed her locker and reached for Edward's hands. He took them easily in his, squeezing them reassuringly, telling himself that he'd protect her from the wrath of Isabella. Memories of last night clouded his mind.

_What if Isabella tells Angie about last night?_

Edward brushed the thought aside.

_Angie probably wouldn't believe Isabella anyway._

Angie's cell phone chimed with a text at the same time Edward's cell rang. They dropped hands, exchanging apologetic smiles and pulling out their phones. Edward bristled at Isabella's name flashing on the screen. He glanced up, wondering if Angie noticed the candid photo or Isabella's name on his cell, but she was too absorbed in whatever was on her on cell. Her eyebrows were bunched together, smoothing out as her eyes widened. Edward turned away, giving her privacy by distancing himself. His thumb hovered over the reject button and he closed his eyes, sighing and answering the phone.

"What do you want?"

Wind whipping in the background and soft rock music filled his ear. Someone whispered. Someone giggled. The rush of skin over the speaker and then …

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Cold fear washed over him. "Sorry for what? What did you do, Isabella?"

"I did it for us. She's no good for you, baby. She's no good."

Edward brought the phone from his ear and stared down at it, his thumb ending the call with one firm touch. He turned around, his heart galloping inside his chest, dreading the inevitable.

Angie stood where he'd left her, in front of the lockers. There were no tears trailing down her face, no signs of teenage heartbreak. Instead, she held her head high and raised one eyebrow, passing him her phone.

He took it from her hands, noticing the paused video on the phone. Confused, he hit the play button, the phone shaking in his hand as the video began to play.

Angry cries and the hard, wet slap of two bodies fucking filled the silence between them. The video was blurry, but he could make out the shape of his own body and Isabella's face as her head fell back on the edge of the bed in ecstasy, her eyes staring directly into the webcam on his computer.

"Angie, let me explain."

Angie smiled, a dry, bitter smile, and took her cell back, pocketing it in her jeans. "How do you do that, exactly? How do you explain the video that Isabella sent me? Tell me, what excuse can you come up with that justifies fucking her?"

Edward took a deep breath, only one explanation coming to mind.

"I'm in love with her."

_~fireflies~_

He waited for her that night, but she never showed. He waited for the flicker of her flashlight, for the brightness of her smile. However, he went to bed alone. The following week was much the same: waiting for her flame, only witnessing her glow at school. Edward watched her from afar, but kept his distance while on school grounds. The thought of Angie seeing them together sickened him with shame. Luckily, Isabella never sought him out.

She flitted from class to class for a few days like a butterfly, full of grace and flying high. But by the end of the week she was sluggish, irritable. Her hair went limp and unwashed, sometimes wearing the same clothes for two days at a time. Rosalie, her counter partner, didn't show up to school at all. Emmett hadn't seen her and Edward wondered if her absence was the reason for Isabella's poor disposition.

"Where's Rosalie been lately?" Edward asked his brother later that night.

Emmett shrugged. "Here and there. Why?"

There was an edge to his voice. Edward treaded carefully, not wanting to start any shit he'd later regret. The two were heading out to a party after all, and Em had started drinking as soon as school let out for the day. Alcohol transformed his brother into someone else, someone mean, someone who didn't mind slamming his brother's head against a wall or beating the hell out of someone for looking at him wrong. Alcohol brought out all the hurt from inside Em.

"Haven't seen her around much." Edward shrugged as well and tossed his guitar case in the cab of his truck. He was playing at the party that night, the party to celebrate what he hoped was a win for the Forks football team.

Once the brothers were inside the truck Emmett cranked up the radio. They drove eight miles to the party, neither of them speaking, finding the party in full swing once they arrived. Turned out the football team didn't win, but that meant little to nothing to the kids of Forks. Kids were already staggering on Mike Newton's beer can-littered lawn. Couples made out against cars and trucks. Paul Lahote walked up the driveway with his hand firmly planted on Jessica Stanley's ass.

"No fighting tonight," Em said, nodding at Lahote, "unless you wanna fight me."

No humor shone in Emmett's eyes. Emmett finished the rest of his beer and tossed it on the floorboard. He climbed out of the truck, following Paul up the drive and nodding his head at some passersby. Edward balled his fists together, slamming one into the dashboard of his truck until the dashboard cracked.

_He drinks until he's mean. He drinks until he hates the one person who's always there for him: me._

Edward climbed out of his truck and moved the seat, reaching for the guitar case, but froze as he noticed Isabella's car zig zag up the road. The car veered off the road, pulling onto the edge of the lawn next to a pecan tree. Grass and dirt were upturned under the tires. Rose stumbled from the vehicle, laughing and staggering across the yard.

"Where's Isabella?" Edward asked, leaving his truck door open, forgotten. "Why are you driving her car?"

Rosalie cupped his face, running her thumb over his bottom lip. "Isabella is indisposed at the moment. But I'm here. Warm, willing, waiting." She stood on her toes, reaching for a kiss. Edward pushed her away with such force she lost her footing, crashing into a kid walking up the drive.

"Asshole," she said, glaring. "You fucking asshole. Wait until I tell Emmett."

She continued to sputter and spout off threats. Edward skulked away toward Isabella's car. Pale skin was visible behind the tinted glass. The door squeaked and protested, but Edward gave it a hard yank and it opened wide. Isabella nearly topped out of the car, but he caught her. He always caught her just before she fell.

"Isabella," he whispered. "Isabella, wake up."

He brushed her hair from her forehead, noting how cold her skin felt. Her lips were an odd color, tinged blue and parted, yet no breath was passing. Edward stilled, watching for a rise and fall of her chest, looking for her warm glow.

There was none.

* * *

><p>Thoughts?<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Fireflies in the Meadow

Chapter Eight

Edward's days dragged by after Isabella's overdose. Those days transformed into weeks, the weeks into two months, then three. Each rise and fall of the sun brought on a new round of emotions for Edward. Shock, denial, anger, but mostly anger. And that deeply embedded anger wasn't even directed at Isabella.

It was directed at Rosalie.

Isabella had left him nearly ninety days when Edward finally snapped. He parked outside on the side of the road across from Rosalie's house late one Saturday night, emptying another can of beer, tossing it on the floorboard along with the others. Rosalie's svelte silhouette could be seen passing by her window occasionally. Sometimes he'd spot her on her cell, laughing and smiling. Sometimes he'd see her sitting at her vanity, brushing her long, thick hair. And sometimes she'd stand in front of the window, peering into the night.

Edward blamed Rosalie for Isabella's overdose. Isabella's problems, those infrequently discussed problems were buried below the surface of Isabella's subconscious for so long before she befriended the blonde. Edward had been Isabella's therapy. The only thing she needed to recover from a childhood of hurt was him. When Rosalie came along, so did the drugs and the recklessness. Edward no longer soothed her pain. Rosalie took his place in Isabella's life—Rosalie and the drugs she so willingly handed out.

Never had Edward felt so much hatred for a person. Many restless nights were spent tossing around in bed, his erratic heartbeat pulsing inside his chest, heinous images of the things he'd like to do to Rosalie playing in his mind.

Edward cracked open another beer and downed half before nearly choking at the sight before him. He wiped the suds from his lip and picked up his cell from the cup holder he'd absently tossed it into earlier. Light from the cell cast a low glow inside his truck and he placed the beer can into the cup holder, cupping his hand over the phone to dim the light. One quick phone call and his work was done. Now, if only she'd follow the same schedule as she normally did …

Edward smiled and picked up his cell again, recording what he saw. The image was fuzzy, the distance between him and the blonde too vast, but anyone would be able to recognize the girl in the video. At least, that was what Edward hoped. The man he called was only Edward's first step to dethroning the high school beauty queen. The video he made was his insurance policy in case step one didn't work.

The girl sitting at her vanity shooting meth into her arm dropped the needle onto her vanity. Within minutes she cranked up the music in her bedroom. Edward heard the soft thump of the bass all the way across the road. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the rhythm of her dancing, his fingers stilling as her bedroom light went off and the porch light went on. Rosalie walked outside and hopped off the porch, bouncing all the way to her car. Edward closed his eyes and slumped down in his seat, praying she wouldn't notice his truck parked across the street, but there was really no reason to worry. Rosalie was flying high, spinning out of her drive and jerking erratically all over the road. Edward made one last phone call.

"She's headed your way," he said. "Driving like a crazy person. I saw her shooting up through the window."

"I'll cut her off before she makes it to the highway," Charlie Swan said. "Thanks, kid."

"No problem."

Charlie cleared his throat. "Hey, Edward?"

"Sir?"

"She's been asking for you again."

Edward swallowed, emotion choking his throat. "I can't. I can't see her."

"Can't say I blame you," Charlie said. "She's not good for you, Edward."

Edward raised his eyebrows, his shaking hand reaching for his warm beer. "Sir?"

Charlie chuckled. "I've always thought you boys would both turn out like your father. Hell, maybe one of you will. Gods knows the odds are stacked against you. Regardless, I've never given you a fair chance. You came to me once, worried about my little girl. I didn't listen to you then and look where we are now. My baby is in rehab. She's hurting and all she wants is you."

Edward drew in a deep breath. "Charlie. Uh, Sir—"

"Gotta go," Charlie replied in a rush.

The sound of his siren blasted through the cell momentarily before the phone disconnected. Edward stared at the phone, the brightness fading. Blackness enveloped him and he was alone: no excitement, no thrill of the chase. Just him sitting on the side of the road, loving her with his all, hating her with his everything.

_~fireflies~_

The phone calls began five days later.

Twice a day Edward's cell would ring with a New Orleans area code. Edward stared at the number each time the phone rang, the number memorized from the first time she called. He knew the caller was Isabella, knew it because she'd left him messages full of sniffling breaths, soft music playing in the background and the occasional whisperings of affection.

At first Edward ignored the messages. But memories of the girl she once was, the potential of the girl she could be, coaxed him into listening to her voice. Gone was the wickedness in her voice, the mocking laughter, the loss of innocence. Her voice was now timid, yearning, quietly begging for him to let her in.

Edward answered her three days after the calls began.

"Hello?"

He heard a sharp intake of breath. "You answered."

"I answered." He sat on the edge of his bed, dragging his fingers through his hair. "Are you, I mean, how are you?"

Isabella gave a soft laugh. "I'm good. Wait, that's a lie. I'm not good, but I will be. I will be. How are you?"

"Miserable," he said, opting for complete honesty. "You scared the shit out of me that night."

"I know," she whispered.

"You almost died." His voice rose, the neverending anger swelling inside of him. "I'm tired of hurting because of you."

Isabella stayed silent for a long time before she spoke again. "The psychiatrist assigned to my case diagnosed me with bipolar disorder and PTSD from when ... Anyway, she says I was using the drugs to self-medicate. When I was low I would smoke or shoot up the meth to pick me up. When I needed to relax I'd smoke some weed to mellow me out."

Unable to remain still any longer, Edward stood and paced the room. "Bipolar disorder? Jesus Christ."

"I know," she said, releasing a ragged breath. "This is something I'll probably have to deal with for the rest of my life. I'm a mess, Edward. I'm a mess and I'm scared. This diagnosis scares me. I don't want to live my life like this. Why did you save me that night? You shoulda done us both a favor and left me to die."

"I saved you because I love you," he replied.

"You still loved me after all the things I did to you? I smashed your guitar."

Although she couldn't see him, Edward shrugged. "I bought another one."

Isabella groaned. "I heard. Daddy told me."

"Your dad's a decent guy. We've become pretty good friends."

"You have?" she asked. "How did that happen?"

Edward laughed, thinking of Rosalie's jail time and her now permanent grounding. "Let's just say he helped me take the trash out one night."

"I don't get it," she said. "Hey, Edward?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think, I mean, would you possibly be willing to come to one of my therapy sessions? My therapist has heard so much about you. She feels like you'd be a positive influence in my recovery."

Edward sat back down on the bed. "Yeah, I guess I could do that. So you're getting cleaned up? Gonna make some changes once you're out of rehab, huh?

"Yeah," she said, a whimsical sigh breaking through the phone. "I can't wait to get home and start over fresh. But mostly I can't wait to see you."

A car door slammed outside. Edward walked over to the window and parted the blinds, staring at the car in the driveway. "You know we can't be together, right? Not like we were before."

"What do you mean?"

"A couple," he said, walking out of his bedroom and to the foyer. A timid knock rapped at the door. "We can't see each other in that way again."

Edward opened the door, his words caught in his throat. A brown-eyed girl smiled at him, her gaze hesitantly darting past him and into the house. He pushed the door completely open and stepped aside. Isabella's voice barely registered in the background, questioning him, pleading with him, her voice rising and falling between bits of hysteria.

"Hello, Edward," Angie whispered, kissing his cheek.

The voice on the other end went silent. Angie entered the house and Edward closed the door, glancing down at the screen of his cell. The phone was black, the glow of the screen gone.

"Fireflies glow," he whispered, blinking rapidly and pocketing his cell. "You're not glowing now, are you, Firefly? You're not glowing now."

* * *

><p>The idea for this story came to me one night while I read a bedtime story about fireflies to my daughter. After Googling facts about fireflies, I thought of ways to implement each fact into a metaphor for my characters and the pain they go through, Isabella in particular. I've been wanting to try writing in third person POV, angst, and alt pairing for a while now and thought this contest could be a fun way to get out of my comfort zone. I hope y'all enjoyed it.<p>

I'm marking as complete for now. I've written another chapter in hopes of continuing, but won't post more chapters unless I actually finish (not going through wip hell again). Thanks to everyone who read/reviewed/voted, etc. Thanks to everyone who pulled off such a fun contest.

Peace and Love,

Hoodie


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